


Like Quickening Hues

by R_Gunns



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Bed-Wetting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Incontinence, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:34:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2347031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Gunns/pseuds/R_Gunns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he feels the warmth spread down the inside of his legs and hears the steady drip from his cotton pajamas to the vinyl floor, his first thought is automatic:</p><p>A leak. It needs to be reported.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for [this](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/19994.html?thread=47538458#t47538458) prompt at the kink meme. Didn't put a self-harm tag because it's brushed over, but Bucky does hurt himself a little with his finger nails, I guess.

Sometimes he wishes that he hadn't ever regained the ability to feel, if only to avoid ever feeling shame again. Because, as his luck would have it, shame turns out to be a major part of his recovery process.  
  
A major part of his entire _life_ actually, after he's back with Steve and trying to fix himself. Even with his magically restored memories (which he would hate Steve for doing, if he had it in him to hate Steve at all) he doesn't magically get better. He's more himself, sure, but Hydra's effects still cling to him like parasites that he just can't shake off.  
  
He spends the first week in a hospital recovering from the process of regaining his memories, which means that the problem only really presents itself once he's taken back to the Avengers tower with Steve.  
  
See, the thing is, muscle memories _aren't_ something you can just re-gain. And here is where the problem lies: Hydra's control over him was absolute. He was never given any sort of privilege that could lead him to the assumption that he was human; his teeth were cleaned for him, he was washed brusquely by technicians when it was required, fed bland food through either a tube or by hand, depending on the time they have.  
  
These things he can re-learn, and does, relatively fast. But when it comes to urinating and defecating, Hydra approach the problem (that is, of him having a _choice_ even if only on when to relieve himself) in a similarly efficient way-- he was given diapers like those used by astronauts, meaning that he can go whenever he needs to without ever having to step away from a fight or accompanied to a bathroom. This does also have the unfortunate side effect of not only weakening the muscles in his sphincter and pelvis, but ensuring that he can't even tell when he has to go-- something that was useful as the Winter Soldier when it eliminated another possible distraction, but is fucking awful for Bucky Barnes.  
  
  
He's been in the Avengers tower not more than half an hour the first time it happens. He is standing in Steve's kitchen while Steve cooks them pasta for dinner, chatting about Sam encouraging him to learn to bake as a hobby. When he feels the warmth spread down the inside of his legs and hears the steady drip from his cotton pajamas to the vinyl floor, his first thought is automatic, _A leak. It needs to be reported._  
  
This is quickly followed by an intense wash of shame and disgust when his memories provide him with context and (more importantly) understanding. It hadn't even occurred to him until now, but he is a _person_ , he is required to use a bathroom like one.  
  
Except the realization comes too late, as there is already a pool of urine spreading around his feet, the smell of ammonia clear even over that of the pasta Steve is cooking. Steve turns, halfway through a sentence, and his mouth falls open.  
  
Bucky's face is burning, and he'd run if he could just make his legs move, but his body fails him and he ends up slumped and shaking, eyes averted from Steve and his inevitable anger-- or, more likely, pity.  
  
Except Steve just says, "Oh, Bucky," and, "It's no big deal, why don't you get in the shower and I'll clean this up." Which shouldn't be surprising considering it's Steve, but it _is_. So he goes, wincing at the wet slap of his feet on the floor, pointedly ignoring the worried looks Steve shoots his way.  
  
While he's in the shower he vows (unaware of weakened muscles) that this won't happen again. Steve has enough to deal with without having to clean up after Bucky like he's a fucking dog.

-

It's an oversight on his part to think he has any semblance of control over his body, Bucky quickly realizes. He falls asleep on the couch next to Steve while he watches something on the TV-- having spent the past half hour wallowing in his embarrassment.

When he wakes there is weak dawn light filtering through the curtains and he is alone, left with a blanket Steve must’ve pulled over him after he’d fallen asleep. It takes him only half a second to notice the damp around his crotch; he’d soiled himself at some point during the night, lost control of his bladder too, enough that the cold wetness has seeped into the bottom of his shirt, up his back. He tries desperately to find the assets indifference within him, but it does not come. Instead his breathing picks up and his eyes sting with-- with frustration, and shame, and fear, even though he knows logically that Steve won’t punish him. He can’t help shaking with it, his teeth clicking together hard enough to hurt, and his fingers digging red semi-circles into his palms and he thinks

_he thinks_

he--

He comes back to himself hours (minutes) later, decides that if he can’t recall the assets lack of shame, he can at least pretend to retain his efficiency. Steve is still in bed, won’t be awake for another hour at least, which gives him time to clean himself up before Steve sees. He drags himself from the couch and heads to the bathroom. He strips himself of his shirt and trousers, wincing at the drag of soiled fabric against his thighs, then bundles them in the trash with a wad of toilet roll thrown on top to hide them.

He showers quickly, knows that if he stays too long he’ll end up scrubbing his skin till it bleeds, attempting, failing to wash his shame away but it doesn’t work (it never works). So he gets out of the shower reluctantly, leaves the comfort of the bathroom to get dressed and forgets, for a moment, the stain he’d inevitably left on the couch in the living room.

Which means that when he comes out of his bedroom some time later, he’s confronted with Steve knelt in front of the couch, scrubbing the cushion clean. He doesn’t look angry or disgusted, but when he catches sight of Bucky in the door frame he freezes like _he_ did something wrong.

“Hey Buck,” he says, probably going for nonchalant but missing it by a mile, “It’s okay, I’m- I’m not m--” he falters, and Bucky thinks _say it, please, I need you to say it._ But he doesn’t, just stands with his hands loose at his sides, brows furrowed in-- it’s too close to--

“Don’t _pity_ me, Steve. I get that enough from everyone else,” he hisses, angry at Steve (at himself), moving past him and to the balcony, climbing over the railing and into early morning rush hour on the streets below.

-

The second his feet hit the asphalt regret immediately washes over him and he stumbles towards the nearest alley. Even aside from the fact that there really is a lot of people and he’s not at all comfortable with having to navigate between them, he’s literally only in sweats and nothing else; that on top of his arm ensures people will notice him, the literal opposite of what he wants right now. He takes a few breaths, tries to stave off more of the shuddering hysteria from this morning, and looks around the alley.

There’s a fire escape that leads to the top of the building on his right. It’s a start.

 

He makes his way across rooftops and back towards the tower slowly while keeping out of sight from people below. Once he’s close enough that he only has to cross one road to get to the tower’s back entrance, he takes a break. He sits. He notices dampness on his thighs. He shouldn’t be surprised really, it’s happened twice already in the however many hours since he’s been out of the hospital and logically speaking, if the asset had no control then he wouldn’t either. But he’d hoped, naively and like a child ( _In more ways than one_ he thinks, grinds his teeth.) that maybe the first had been an accident, the second from a stray nightmare, and yet. Here he is, curled around his knees on a roof a bare minute away from the tower, sat in a puddle of his own urine trying not to cry because as much as his body wills him otherwise he is not a child, nor a dog waiting for it's nose to be rubbed in it’s mess. Never mind if he deserves it.

Time passes. He tries to make himself move, imagines himself getting up and into the tower, bypassing Steve with a casualness he knows he doesn’t possess, apologizing and smirking and dismissing the entire thing. He imagines Steve nodding and smiling and-- he still doesn’t move.

The sun’s position suggests it’s about midday when he hears the fire escape rattle and Clint Barton vault himself up over the edge of the roof. He’d been rubbing his fingers up and down his calves, twitchy with anxiety, but stills when Barton catches his eye.

“Steve’s looking for you.” he says, shoulders relaxed, but his eyes are tight with something.

“I know.”

“So you gonna go tell him you’re okay then?” Barton asks. Bucky shakes his head, no.

“Right, that’s cool, your prerogative or whatever. Except you’re not really supposed to be out of the tower ‘til your psych eval, so I’m supposed to bring you back. Not that I can make you do anything I guess. I’m good but not,” he gestures at Bucky with one hand, “that good.”

Bucky isn’t really listening to him, too busy thinking that he really doesn’t have a choice whether he’s going with Barton or not, and quietly panicking about it. He reasons, after a few minutes of Barton rambling, that at least it’s not Steve, or Stark or anyone else. He’d rather Natasha but this is fine.

he’s _fine_. He stands up abruptly, and -to his credit- Barton only falters for a fraction of a second before he recovers and puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Is that why you- you know what, educated guess, you’re probably not okay with what’s happening to you right now and that’s why you’re up here. But, uh, it happens to the best of us, meaning me, after someone fucks with your brain, dude. It’s okay.”

That's new. He’s not alone in this. Bucky sucks in a sharp breath and squeezes his eyes shut.

Barton says, “Hey, you wanna borrow my pants?”


	2. Chapter 2

In the end it takes all of five minutes for them to get back to the tower, Barton's jacket wrapped around Bucky's waist ("Wait." He'd said, reaching a hand towards Barton. "Its just. Your jacket is fine." Barton had paused with his hands on his belt, then huffed a laugh. "Right, yeah. That makes more sense.")

He's angry at himself, a little, by how worked up he was over something that turns out to be laughably easy. He leaves Clint in the elevator, managing to get to his room without even seeing Steve. He lingers a little in the shower, thinking through what Clint had said to him about his own experience after brain washing. He hadn’t been ashamed at all, though maybe because it obviously doesn’t affect him any longer. Bucky doesn’t know whether that’s a good sign or something that’ll become a further reminder of his continued failure.

Once he’s showered and back in his room he immediately spots a package on his bed with a note attached; it’s Clint’s writing, says _had some left over from before_. He peers down at it, sees the words ‘depends’ and ‘protective underwear’ and abruptly feels like he’s going to pass out.

Heat rushes to his cheeks and he burns with the knowledge that these-- these made things permanent. Before, he could fool himself into thinking that maybe he’d wake up one day and he’d just be _fixed_. But that obviously isn’t the case, and even if it is he’s still got to last out the days until that happens. He can’t hide away in his room forever, as much as he really wants to. He stands frozen for a long time, long enough to hear Steve come back in the flat and start on dinner, long enough for his breathing to even out and his heart rate to slow. And when Steve knocks on his door and tells him that dinner is ready he doesn’t think, drops his towel, pulls one of the damn things on under his sweats and heads into the kitchen before he can panic himself into hiding away.

It’s uncomfortable. And embarrassing, and he’s sure that Steve knows even as he’s telling himself that unless Clint said something he couldn’t, really. Bucky had crossed from his room to the couch and hasn’t moved since. Steve can’t see anything. But despite all this, despite the nagging feeling that Steve might find out and the undercurrent of panic that this could be permanent, it’s still an utter fucking relief to not have to focus the majority of his attention on whether he’s about to humiliate himself or not.

He listens to Steve tell him about his day from the other side of the couch, complain about Tony Stark, talk with more than a little awe about Sam’s work at the VA, then complain about Tony Stark a little more, which Bucky cracks a smile at. Steve falters a little when he does, tripping over whatever he was about to say. He smiles back though, a little sappy and a lot fond.

 

Later, when they’ve settled in front of the TV to watch whatever’s next on Steve’s ‘catching up with the 21st century’ netflix queue, Steve decides he wants to talk. He spends a few minutes shifting awkwardly at first, then when Bucky is about to ask him what his problem is he turns fully toward Bucky on the couch, brows knitted.

“If you want to talk,” he begins, then trails off when he doesn’t know what to say next. Bucky doesn’t turn away from the TV when he says, “I don’t."

“Buck, listen, you don’t have to be-- are you sure you don’t want to--”

“I literally could not think of anything worse, Steve.” Bucky says, finally turning his head to catch Steve’s eye to make sure he get how little he wants to have this conversation. Steve blows out a breath and nods.

“Okay. But listen, if you’re still having ah- problems by Thursday, promise me you’ll say something during your psych eval, Bucky. They can help you.” And he isn’t an idiot, he knows that this isn’t something he can brush over when his mental health is being analyzed, as much as he never wants to speak about it ever. So he nods his agreement and turns his attention back to the TV, ignoring Steve’s little sigh of relief that he’s sure is as much out of relief for not having to have that conversation as it was for Bucky agreeing to talk to the shrink.

He spends the rest of the evening with half his attention on the TV and the other half on his body, though not quite so urgently as before, just… feeling out his body, trying to figure out the signs his body must be sending him that he’s missing. He doesn’t really get anywhere, but it doesn’t feel quite like a failure. Sitting with Steve on the couch, he feels content.

Later, Steve is in the shower and Bucky is in bed reading a romance novel Natasha had given him when he notices a tightening in his abdomen. He makes to get off the bed, but too late, as he’s barely on his feet before he loses control. His good mood is extinguished abruptly as his body reminds him of how far from okay he is. Bucky hisses through his teeth and goes to his en-suite bathroom to clean himself up, taking a moment to at least be relieved that he doesn’t have to worry about ruining any more of his pants or cleaning puddles from the floor. Shitty fucking silver lining, but he’ll take it.

He lies awake for a long time, trying to become aware of his body. Still, nothing. He wakes up without another incident, but he doesn’t let himself hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus outtake [here](http://rrgunns.tumblr.com/post/98626327662/okay-so-i-was-filling-a-prompt-thats-supposed-to) because I started rambling about Steve and it didn't fit in the fic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a very short chapter because it's the penultimate part and it'll flow better this way.

Steve has to go and meet Fury for something in the morning, so he spends a good hour fretting and making noises about skyping him instead until Bucky manages to convince him he’d be fine on his own for a few hours. Steve doesn’t look any less worried, but Bucky finally gets him out the door with a hand on his shoulder and a pointed shove.

He’s attempting to clear his head under the cool spray of the shower when he hears a knock on Steve’s door and has to force himself not to go for the nearest weapon (razor on the sink, or the heavy porcelain lid on the toilet tank) and remind himself that it’s unlikely to be anyone other than one of the Avengers. And he should probably open the door since Steve isn’t here. He gets out of the shower hastily and in his panic pulls on his sweats and a shirt but nothing else. He pulls open the door and is confronted with an over-caffeinated (and under-slept) Tony Stark, and fights the urge to close it again.

“Oh, huh, didn’t expect you,” he says, fingers twitching, “Cap here?” Bucky shakes his head no and Stark nods like he'd been expecting it.

“Hey, so since I’m here and you are also here, can I look at your arm? Because I’m pretty sure I can give you an upgrade, or at least fix that grinding noise yours is making, it’ll only be some scans in my lab for now, I need to see the mechanisms before I do anything.” he says, then stares at Bucky expectantly. Bucky wants desperately to say no but he owes this man tenfold, in favors (for living in the tower) and blood (his parents, the car crash, brake wires and a knife and a cliff’s edge and wide wide eyes that catch his own at the edge of-). He nods and follows Stark into the elevator.

 

And it isn’t anything like his chair, literally only a seat on some wheels, but he’s on a chair in a lab and Stark is working on his _arm_ and he can’t _**breathe**_ _because once that’s done they are going to hurt him he doesn’t remember how he knows but he knows the chair is going to hurt it’s going to hurt--_

There is a steady dripping sound against the floor, Stark saying _Barnes!_ like it’s urgent and Bucky feels cold and he feels wet and-- and. He comes back to himself fully, sees Stark backed a few feet away with wide eyes. He doesn’t look down at what he knows is a spreading stain across pale grey sweats that hide nothing, just squeezes his eyes shut while his cheeks flare hot, breathes and thinks _I’m fine, everything is fine, I’m not there--_ interrupted when Stark says,

“Okay so this wasn’t one of my better ideas.” Which is a hell of a fucking understatement.

Then there’s a few mortifying minutes when he is trying to will himself to move, Stark is rambling about his ability to admit to his mistakes and Bucky thinks he’ll have to clean up the floor while Stark stands behind him chatting like it’s an every day fucking occurrence. But when he finally manages to force himself out of the chair Tony goes quiet for a second, then says,

“You can. Go. You don’t have to stay, Dum-E is supposed to mop the floors today anyway.” So Bucky takes that as the out it is and tries not to _run_ from the room, gets half-way to the door when Stark speaks again.

“Hey, so I know a thing or two about uncontrollable reactions to trauma. And in the grand scheme of things? This isn’t bad. At least you didn’t almost kill your girlfriend while you were asleep, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says without turning around, “I wasn’t asleep.”

-

He knows Stark doesn't -or didn't- know about the hellicarrier, so he spends the rest of the afternoon panicking about what he'd said to Stark and worrying that he wouldn't be welcome in the tower any more. But then a file oh-so-subtly named ‘For Barnes’ eyes only’ appears on his Stark tablet a few hours later and he opens it to find dozens of websites and self help guides and recommendations for coping techniques; Bucky feels overwhelmed and crosses out of it all, switching to some music Bruce had recommended to him.

(He opens the file back up that night while he lays in bed, scours through as much as he can before he falls asleep.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last part, thank you for reading and commenting :)

The next morning Bucky wakes himself up screaming. Steve is in the room before he’s even fully aware of his surroundings, hovering by the side of the bed and mumbling soothing nonsense. It takes him a second to understand where he is, noting that he’s wet (of course he is, of course he fucking is) and Steve can see him but ultimately none of that matters, because for once his mortification is second to the blinding fear-- usually his nightmares are of blood and dead missions which are at least repetitive enough that he’s become used to them, even through the horrified guilt they incite.

But tonight his dream hadn't been true even though it was vivid and grotesquely real; glimpses and flashes, of the helicarrier, the potomac, of Steve falling and falling but Bucky leaving, and Hydra welcoming him back with open arms and a clean wipe and Steve was _dead, he’d killed him._ His breathing is harsh and wet, but Steve is there, and he says,

“I’m going to touch you if that’s okay,” reaching out a hand for Bucky’s shoulder, but Bucky takes it in his own instead, tugging Steve onto the bed with what he’s sure is a painfully hard grip, curling against his chest and breathing him in.

“I thought you were dead,” he murmurs against Steve’s collarbone, fingers wound tightly in the fabric of Steve’s shirt, “I thought you were dead and I killed you.” The words burn like bile as he says them, and the truth of it lingers; how close he’d been to doing just that, how close he’d come to losing Steve by his own hands. He doesn’t cry like he wants to, just leans in and breaths steady, waits till the tight ball of anger and fear fades to something less debilitating.

Steve rubs his hands up and down Bucky’s back while he settles, then along his arms and his calves and the rest of him, steady and grounding.

“As if I’d ever leave you Buck,” he says finally, “It’s not my stop just yet.”

Bucky laughs weakly at that, nods against Steve’s chest and says, “Okay.”

-

The psychiatrist sees him in the tower since its unanimously agreed that being around too many other people isn’t the best idea for him right now. At first he thinks they want to protect other people in case he snaps or something, but Steve reassures him while they take the elevator down a few floors that it’s to protect _him_. He’s not sure whether to bristle about being treated so delicately or be thankful for how much effort Stark is putting into making him as comfortable as possible, but in the end he has to drop that line of thinking anyway when Ms Shabnam Patir calls his name from down the hallway.

Stark is good to his employees; the whole floor is set up as a medical facility, and Ms Patir’s office is as comfortable as a psychiatrists office can be, large windows that let in natural light, minimal technology and an abundance of plants make it feel far less like the doctors office he was expecting.

It goes about as well as expected. He relays to her the biggest things he’s having trouble with at her prompting, manages to get through some stuff he’s worried about, and stuff he wants to work on. He has to stop a few times to get his breathing under control, picking at a stray piece of thread from the shirt he's wearing (the one Steve had slept in actually, which is gross but the smell of Steve is comforting). He manages to get through it though, and she agrees that he can live with Steve outside of the tower so long as he has regular appointments with her and doesn’t do anything emotionally strenuous like working with the Avengers or newly reformed SHIELD. He readily agrees.

They are pretty much done when Ms Patir asks Bucky if there’s anything else troubling him that they hadn’t touched upon. He takes a breath and digs his nails into his palms, then explains everything-- the lack of control, how it’d been encouraged by Hydra, how much he _hates_ it, and he’s shivering with humiliation as he tells her, shoulders bowed under the shame of it.

But then when he trails off into silence, she looks at him without disgust or pity, just says,

“You aren’t alone in this James,” then holds up a hand when he tries to say he _knows_ that, “ I understand that logically you are probably aware of that, but emotionally, I think if you really understand it might ease your anxiety. Did you know that millions of people in the US alone have the same issue you do James? And the likelihood of a POWs or PTSD sufferers experiencing incontinence issues is something like one in three. That’s a significant number don’t you think?” Bucky doesn’t answer her, too busy wrapping his mind around the number: it _is_ significant. She’s right though, knowing that others _may_ have problems like him, and Clint admitting to it being a temporary issue is a far cry from being confronted with the fact that a third of people like him are going through the same thing. He’s not sure how to process that.

“James, listen to what I say now as this is important,” Ms Patir says, then waits till he’s raised his eyes to hers again, “Most of the time? Your problem is treatable, if not curable. I can’t promise full recovery as every case is different, but I can say with hard work and some time, you will most likely improve enough to not have to worry about this daily at all. I wouldn’t say that if I wasn’t confident.”

And Bucky’s breathing hitches, his eyesight blurs, and for the first time since he regained his memories, he thinks he might be able to do this, thinks _maybe things will be okay_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note to avoid disappointment, this fic isn't going to be sexual, just focused on Bucky's recovery. It's Stucky if you squint, but pretty much gen.


End file.
